


The Ragged and the Bones

by LivingProof



Series: Sing Something for the Dark [1]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Barnum Worries, Charity Worries, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Phillip Whump, Protective P. T. Barnum, Unhealthy relationships with alcohol, aka Phillip Carlyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-04-11 10:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivingProof/pseuds/LivingProof
Summary: During a long night at the Barnum household, PT struggles to ask the right questions, Charity struggles to keep everyone on an even keel, and Phillip just struggles.Or, Phillip's willingness to leave the world of the socially acceptable and his failure to meet the expectations of his parents and their ilk have unexpected consequences. And Barnum can't shake the feeling that he's missing something very important here.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I can't get these characters out of my head, so maybe I should just stop trying. 
> 
> Per the tags, a fair amount of discussion of unhealthy alcohol use follows, but that shouldn't be new to anyone in this fandom.

Phineas Taylor Barnum is fortunate to be inordinately pleased with many things in his life.

 

His family, of course: his darling wife, who left a life of comfort and certainty for nothing more than a distant promise of magic. His beautiful girls: Caroline growing into herself enough to learn to disregard the opinion of people who don't deserve her respect (and oh, if only he had grasped _that_ lesson sooner), and Helen, full of more energy and enchantment than any fantasy he could dream up.

 

And the widening circle of those he thinks of as family; that he can count so many he has met, who look and sound and act nothing like him, among that number is a blessing too. That they are able to overlook his mistakes, treat _him_ like family despite the suffering he brought them, he regards as nothing less than miraculous.

 

He is more than content with his new home, product of his hard work and redemption, more modest than the previous one but somehow fuller and lighter for it. The tall windows that overlook the street, where he and Helen will sit and watch and conjure stories for passersby. The creaking floorboards in the foyer that announce any visitors, and they have had so many of those lately: most of the circus troupe for one very memorable dinner, even the Halletts a time or two.

 

And all the nooks and crannies where the girls have squirreled away their prized possessions – ballet slippers and fake beards and stuffed lions – and where he has stashed a few of the things he values most: the letters Charity was able to slip past watchful schoolmistresses into the mailbox; the cuff links, in the shape of the big top, that Phillip gave him the night of the circus's grand reopening; an old top hat, too threadbare to wear or restitch, with which he cannot part.

  
He even loves his doorbell; always seeking to be on the cutting edge of innovation, he'd insisted on getting one after seeing the advertisement in _The Herald._ The soft, elegant bell, like the jingling of the harnesses on the circus horses, a counterpoint to the jarring buzzers so much more common in the city. _A sound I will never tire of_ , he told Charity when it was installed, Helen and Caroline falling over each other to try it again and again and _again_.

  
Though at this particular moment, sometime after the witching hour but well before the first beams of sunlight will hit the windows in his office on the second floor of the east side of the house – dawn finds him in front of them frequently, too full of ideas to sleep – he decides that sentiment may have been premature.

  
“Phin?” His groggy, grouchy wife asks in response to the doorbell's chime. “Who on earth could be calling at this hour?”

  
Barnum grunts, rubs his eyes. “God only knows. Perhaps Miss Stein's mother has taken ill again?” He thinks of the poor young woman next door, putting her own life on hold to care for first a befuddled father and now a frail, coughing mother.

  
“If you don't answer the door, she's going to keep ringing until she wakes the girls.”

  
“If _I_ don't answer the door?” He gets a glimpse of his wife's face in the dim light from the bedroom window. “Right. Going to answer the door now.”

  
He trundles down the stairs while he ties his dressing gown around himself, calls out lowly, “Yes, Miss Stein, I'm coming.”

  
“Is your mother feeling...” He pauses once he's opened the door, unsure if his sleep-addled mind is interpreting the scene in front of him correctly. His mouth finally catches up to his eyes.

  
“Phillip?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Barnum pulls the younger man out of the cool, early spring night and into his foyer. He blinks, rubs his face. “Phillip. What are you doing out at this hour?” It takes him a moment to realize Phillip isn't responding, is instead turning his head about to take in his surroundings. “Phillip?” He tries again.

 

Phillip pauses in his inspection. “PT,” he finally acknowledges languidly.

 

There isn't quite enough light in the foyer for Barnum to make out Phillip's features, but he gathers the general image: insouciant slump to Phillip's shoulders, inelegant tilt to his head. “Phillip,” he asks again, “what are you doing here?”

 

Phillip finally meets his eyes, or at least appears to be looking in his general direction. “I...I had to go somewhere...” he stammers.

 

Barnum leans in, struggling to make out the words. He's heard Phillip speak like this before, has heard most of the circus troupe use these uneven, uncertain tones after a long night at their favorite tavern, supposes he may have had that same stumbling voice himself once or twice.

 

“Phillip...are you drunk?”

 

Phillip tilts his head. “What?”

 

Barnum just sighs. “Have you been drinking, Phillip?”

 

“I...uh...I...” Phillip slurs.

 

“So that's a yes.” Barnum grits his teeth. The younger man has certainly done some foolish things after a few glasses of whiskey too many, but his imbibing usually ends with him sprawled across his own bed or the divan in their shared office, not on Barnum's stoop. At least as far as Barnum is aware.

 

Barnum has been there too with him, starting with that morning after their first meeting when they'd both woken in the office in the old circus building with roiling stomachs and throbbing heads. That hadn't thrown Barnum, considering his role in causing it. Nor had the next time, again after a night out with Barnum, or even the next, as most of the troupe had been at the tavern for the rowdy occasion of Charles's birthday. But some months later, realizing it would be a regular occurrence, Barnum had asked Phillip about it, and been disheartened and not a little disturbed when Phillip had laughed off his concern and told him it was better than drinking alone.

 

And whatever he might have done then to try to steer the younger man in a better direction had been interrupted by meeting Miss Lind, and Barnum's inability to focus on anything other than himself and his misguided pursuit of _more_. He knows Phillip kept the circus running in his absence, even though he'd been given precious little guidance or time to prepare. But he can piece together, from what Lettie, and Anne, and Charles have told him, that Phillip in those months must have traded the vice of drink for that of hours far too long and a routine too demanding.

 

That last doesn't surprise him, as since the fire Phillip has devoted nearly every waking moment to the circus, to getting the show up and running again. Barnum isn't completely pleased with that development, but at least he'd been able to tell himself that it was preferable for Phillip to fill the hollow places in his heart with work on the circus ledger, and planning new dance routines, and getting the paperwork in order for their ever-expanding animal menagerie.

 

So he had thought Phillip had moved on from this kind of behavior, was _better_ than this, but to see that he's misjudged a situation, _again,_ fills him with anger and sorrow and a dozen other emotions he's too tired to name right now.

 

“Phillip...” Barnum starts, knowing there is little use in trying to reason with the man when he's this far into his cups, but frustrated and fatigued enough to try anyway. _Didn't we talk about this?_

 

“Phineas?” Phillip is saved from the ill-advised lecture by Charity's voice as she descends the stairs. “What's going on?”

 

“We have a late night gentleman caller,” Barnum calls out sardonically, running a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair and shifting to give Charity a view of their unexpected guest.

 

“Phillip?” Charity asks as she makes the first floor. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Funny,” Barnum interjects before Phillip can even chance a reply, “I've been trying to figure that out myself.”

 

“I...I needed to go...somewhere.” Phillip finally finds the wherewithal to repeat, hugging his elbow into his side.

 

“Yes, and he chose our lovely abode.” Barnum blows out a breath.

 

Charity, imperturbable as always, tries to make out the details of Phillip's features before sighing herself. “Let's head to the kitchen, shall we? I'll put on a pot of tea.”

 

 “Lord knows he'll need it,” Barnum grouses under his breath. Charity briefly touches his shoulder and gives Phillip a sad smile as she pads down the hallway to the kitchen.

  

Barnum turns back to Phillip. “Well, you heard the woman.” He takes in Phillip's swaying figure. “Now, as to if you understood her...that's a different matter.” _Isn't it time_ _you stopped doing this to yourself, Phillip?_

 

His voice softens slightly at Phillip's dazed expression. “Alright, Phillip, let's get you taken care of, then.” He grabs the younger man's elbow gently. “Perhaps you'd be better off with a strong pot of coffee,” he mutters as they follow his wife. “Or an ice-cold bath.” _Or a friend who can talk you out of your worst impulses. One better than me, at any rate._

 

Phillip flinches in his grip but allows Barnum to pull him along.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Barnum gets Phillip into the kitchen as Charity is lighting the lamps. He drowsily leads the younger man to the nearest chair, pushes him down into it.

  


He thinks to himself he is getting far too old for these sorts of late-night misadventures, especially now that he is working so hard to balance his responsibilities at the circus with being more present in his family's lives. At least the girls are older now; he has no idea how the unmarried or widowed mothers with young children that Charity had insisted he hire to staff the mess tent and ticket booths at the circus manage it.

  


But the circus is a family too, and that explains why he sometimes enters the rehearsal tent to see Constantine letting the children trace the tattoos on his arms, or Lettie teaching them limericks and rhymes, or WD carefully swinging them on the the low practice bars, always ready to catch them should they fall.

  


The circus takes care of its own, always. And speaking of, he thinks, as he watches Charity turn from the last of the lamps to study his wayward partner.

  


“Phillip, why are you wearing...” Charity trails off when she meets her husband's eyes. Seeing her puzzled look, Barnum glances down at the younger man.

  


“Your nightclothes?” He finishes for his wife, taking in the cotton fabric beneath his hand. He looks Phillip up and down, mind slowly beginning to process the now-illuminated sight in front of him. Rumpled bed shirt and trousers, dirt on his hands, muck on his elbows and knees, soiled bare – _bare? –_ feet, toes curling into the thin rug on the floor.

  


Barnum surveys his way back up to Phillip's face, registers the red-rimmed eyes, the dull expression on that typically keen face and _is that mud on his cheek?_ The hair wildly askew, a dramatic counterpoint to the man's usually pristine coiffure.

  


Other than those long days right after the fire, this the most unkempt he's ever seen his partner. There had been that time, when they were surveying construction on the lot by the docks after a few rainy days, that they'd slid into a muddy ditch near where they planned to put the animal enclosure, but that had been the result of Barnum losing his footing and – he insists to everyone afterward – _unintentionally_ dragging Phillip down to the ground with him.

  


Phillip's response, after an initial moment of shock, had been the long, clear laughter that Barnum can only rarely pull out of the younger man, which led to a cathartic fit of giggles on Barnum's part that he hadn't realized he so desperately needed. It certainly wasn't anything like tonight, Phillip hunched in a chair at Barnum's kitchen table, dusty and dirty and utterly adrift.

  


“Phillip. What. What did you _do?_ ” Phillip finally looks at him, blinking. _Other than find your way to the bottom of a bottle, again?_

  


Barnum can see the gears grinding behind Phillip's eyes, but his partner is unable to summon a response.

  


“Phillip.” He decides he needs to be much more specific, given the younger man's state. “Why are you...” _here, at night, all dirty, hope it's just dirt, drunk as a skunk, sitting there and blinking at me like I have three heads and not answering any of my questions,_ “covered in mud?”

  


“Oh. Oh,” Phillip replies, rubs the inside of his elbow. “Fell.”

  


“You...fell.” Barnum's turn to blink at the other man as his head spins. Could his partner have been at the circus, putting in another late night on what should have been his day off? There are certainly plenty of places to take a tumble there, but Barnum has never seen him imbibe while on the job. _Has it gotten that bad, could it have gotten that bad without me noticing?_

  


Though that doesn't explain why Phillip is in his nightclothes, so perhaps the younger man came from his apartment. And isn't that a troubling thought, that Phillip might have been sitting alone in his apartment, downing drink after drink until he got to this state. _But why would you come here, if that were the case?_

  


“Phillip,” he starts again, determined to get the answer to at least one more question, “where _were_ you tonight?”

  


“Oh,” the younger man says again. “My parents' house.”

  


Barnum startles at the clatter of Charity fumbling the full kettle she's moving to the stove, realizes he had completely forgotten her presence, hadn't even noticed her kindling a flame in the stove's belly. They look at each other for a long moment before Charity sets the kettle aright on the burner.

  


“What were you doing there?” He asks deliberately. _Why were you there,_ he doesn't say, though he burns to, _why would you see that wretched man,_ part of him demands to know, but _why didn't you tell me_ is the thought he comes closest to voicing.

  


“Luncheon.” Phillip replies blearily.

  


“Luncheon,” Barnum repeats blandly. “And then...you left...and came here?” Phillip nods carefully. _But that would have been hours ago, and what have you been up to since then?_

  


“Did you...fall in the street, Phillip?” Charity interjects, hands hovering over the teapot and cups she has made ready. _Stumbling over your own feet in the dark, molls and drudges watching from shadowed alleys and doors?_

  


“Street? Phillip shakes his head slowly, struggles to steady it. “No...from the trellis.”

  


 


	4. Chapter 4

Barnum and Charity gape at each other over Phillip's head.

 

“You fell...from a trellis?” Barnum elucidates each word carefully, not sure who needs it most. He gets a deliberate nod from Phillip. “Why...why were you on a trellis?”

 

“ 's climbing down.” Barnum can only pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

“You were...climbing down a trellis.” _What, were you plucking clematis for your boutonnière?_ Then again, Barnum can recall being chased away from the the gardens of the Townsend estate next to the Hallett home when he was a boy, searching for blossoms worthy of Charity's beauty until the household's gardener would come after him with a hoe.

 

Phillip nods.

 

“And then you fell.”

 

Phillip nods again.

 

“What...where...was the trellis at your parent's house?” _As if the inhabitants of that wretched place think any amount of colorful blooms could conceal their darkness._

 

Phillip nods a final time.

 

“Phillip. Why were you climbing down a trellis at your parents' house?”

 

“Door was locked.” Phillip replies simply.

 

“The door was...” Barnum mutters, shakes his head just as the kettle comes to a boil. He says nothing, stands still as he watches Charity spoon tea leaves into the pot, pour the hot water in after.

 

“Alright,” Barnum tries again. “The door...what door? At your parents' house? To what?”

 

Phillip's head bobs. “M' old room.”

 

“Phillip.” Barnum sighs heavily, leans down to get a better look at Phillip's face. The younger man shifts, digging a thumb into the joint of his elbow. “Can you tell me everything that's happened to you tonight?”

 

“Came here,” Phillip offers.

 

“Yes, but...before that. You went to your parents' house for luncheon?” A nod. “And then...you left.” Another nod. “And you climbed down the trellis. Because the door to your room was locked.” A final nod. _Oh, Phillip,_ he thinks, _how much did you drink while you were there? And why did they let you?_

 

Barnum has certainly witnessed Phillip soused before – it's almost the first state he ever saw him in, though knowing what he does now he regrets resorting to such a tactic to entice the younger man. He regrets so many things, but convincing Phillip to leave that world of stiff colors and stiffer upper lips and stifling expectations is not one of them.

 

The young man is generally gregarious when he gets a drink or four in him. A little more open, quicker with a smile then, and what Barnum wouldn't do to see that expression more, to pull it out of him without the aid of whiskey.

 

Occasionally morose if he's had too many. He has too many too often, that's when Barnum, if he's been keeping pace and count, tries to drag him to the street, the park, the latest tawdry show in the city.

 

Very rarely surly, and only if he's gone too far past his limit. His limit is far too high, but he has barely a bad bone in his body, and even when he's well sotted he cares too much, can't stand himself if he pulls someone else down with him.

 

But Barnum has never seen him like this: damn near catatonic, staring blankly ahead, barely capable of voicing a coherent thought. And he cannot, for the life of him, envision what must have happened to drive Phillip to hit the bottle this hard. It grates against something in the back of his mind, makes his jaw clench and his fingers flutter.

 

“Phillip,” Charity asks softly as she sets the teapot and cups on the table, and Barnum is eternally grateful he is not solely responsible for untangling this ball of yarn, “why did your parents lock the door?”

 

Phillip stares at the teapot, watches the thin tendril of steam escaping from its spout. “They didn't.”

 

Barnum finally pulls a chair next to Phillip's, takes a seat. Charity sets herself down across the table, where she can watch both of them at once. _Were you drinking before you got there? Was it so bad you felt you had to lock yourself away?_

 

He's too afraid to ask that first question, settles on the second. “Why did _you_ lock the door?”

 

Phillip sighs, and for the first time Barnum sees some of his own frustration reflected back at him. “ _I_ didn't,” the younger man replies, brows furrowing.

 

“Well who did, then?” Barnum snaps, regrets it when his partner flinches. _And since when are you this damn skittish, like one of our new horses before it's learned not to fear the dancers and singers and the thousand and one things that are always going on inside the ring?_

 

“Phillip,” Charity says softly, soothingly, “who locked the door to your room?”

 

“The doctors did,” Phillip replies, voice barely above a whisper, eyes dark as pitch, and Barnum _hears_ his heart stutter. He and Charity share a long, heavy look. Charity leans forward to pour the tea, seems as uneasy as Barnum feels.

 

Barnum takes a long, steadying breath. “Phillip, why were there doctors at your parents' house?”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Barnum finally starts to get some answers. For better or worse.

Phillip doesn't reply at first, traces the handle of his teacup with a trembling finger, looks for answers in the darkness past the kitchen window.

  
“Because...” he starts, swallows, clenches his outstretched fingers into a fist, “my parents asked them to come.” Barnum isn’t surprised by that answer, is even somewhat pleased that Phillip finally managed to utter a full sentence, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling that’s settling in his gut.

 

“Phillip,” that icy sensation, one he might call fear, rises from Barnum's stomach, slinks up around his spine, “ _why_ did your parents ask the doctors to come to your luncheon?”

 

“They came to.. _treat_ me.” The cold in Barnum's chest flashes, flares white hot. He dimly registers Charity's sharp inhale, sees her shakily raise her teacup to her mouth from the corner of his eye.

 

“Treat you...” Barnum sputters. _For what?_ And then, _since when are your parents concerned with getting you the help you might actually need?_

 

He can't bring himself to ask that latter question, doesn't even want Phillip to try to answer it. “Why were they treating you?”

 

Phillip snorts derisively at that, and Barnum finds it both encouraging and heartbreaking. “To address my...mental alienation.”

 

Barnum sucks in a breath, precious few pieces finally slotting together, then leans in until he can catch Phillip's weary eyes. “So they locked you in that room. Because you tried to leave.”

 

Phillip nods slowly, sadly, fingers scraping at the mud caked into the sleeve of his nightshirt.

 

“Christ, if I...” Barnum trails off, tells himself to focus on the issue in front of him now, instead of if razing the Carlyle estate to the ground would be justice or just overkill. He is a man prone to overkill.

 

“But then you climbed out the window, down the trellis.” He takes a moment to be grateful that Phillip had proved to be so athletic in the ring, so willing to learn a few basic aerial acrobatic moves from Anne and WD, though he never expected the younger man to need those lessons outside of the big top. _And it still wasn't enough, because you fell, God how far down did you get, how did you even get down any of it, with your hands shaking like this, and barely able to string a few words together?_

  
Phillip hums his agreement, still worrying at the fabric of his shirt above his forearm. Barnum considers the dirt under the other man's fingernails, the stains on his sleeve, the distant expression on his face, the methodical press of his thumb into the joint of his elbow. _But when would you have had a chance to drink this much? How could you still be so sottish now, hours later? And even so, I’ve never seen you like this..._

  
“Phillip,” he leans forward in his chair, slowly raises one hand to cradle Phillip's elbow, brings his other hand to the nightshirt's cuff and picks at the loose buttons, “could I take a look here, please?”

 

Phillip stiffens, stills, then finally nods. Barnum pushes the cuff open wide, ghosts his fingers over the purple and blue imprints covering Phillip's forearm, then shifts the sleeve up until he can see the angry needle marks glaring darkly from the delicate skin inside Phillip's elbow.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Barnum stares at the marks for a moment. _One, two, too many._ They're in a tight line, a constellation of deep blue stars along Phillip's vein. Barnum can only trace his thumb beside them, feather-light, pausing at each one. _How long between these,_ he wonders. _Could_ _you only struggle at the first, Phillip, before that injection sapped you of your strength and sense? Or did you make it hard for them each time? I hope you did._

  
“Phillip,” he asks, the even timbre and intonation of his voice taking him by surprise, “what did these doctors say they were treating, again?” _Did they give you the dignity of a real reason, or did they think you were below deserving one?_

 

Phillip watches Barnum's thumb trace the punctures on his arm. His earlier nerves seem to have fled, perhaps from relief at having nothing left to hide – if he's cognizant enough for that thought – or maybe he's just too focused on drawing the words from his drug-addled memory.

 

“My...aberrant behaviors.” Every syllable stretched, words spilling softly from him. “And. My social dev...” He stalls, rolling the word in his mouth. “Dev...”

 

“Deviance?” Charity supplies from the other side of the table, and both Barnum and Phillip look up at her. Her voice is calm but her knuckles are white around her now empty cup, and Barnum reflects on her willful disobedience to her parent's wishes, their cold disapproval when she strayed too far outside their lines, _this is not behavior in which a young woman of your stature should engage,_ wonders at the shadows he sees behind her soft eyes.

 

Phillip nods, drops his gaze back to Barnum's hand on his arm.

  
“Oh, Phillip.” All Barnum can think to say, heavy with too many feelings to name, though misery and rage figure prominently. _Not alcohol,_ _that's brought you low tonight, not too many drinks but a family with too little love, a society that quashes any thought too bold, any dream too wild._

  
And Barnum is ashamed of himself for a moment at the relief he feels, realizing that Phillip hasn't done this to himself. He's ashamed of himself for thinking the worst of Phillip at first as well, and he hopes Phillip doesn't remember too much of this night, though at some point he knows he will demand more answers about what exactly happened at his parents' home.

  
Phillip says nothing, just slumps forward a little until he jolts himself back upright, shaking his head. Barnum rubs his thumb along the bone of Phillip's elbow. _The Carlyle estate is not near, and you walked, and walked, in the gloom and alone, soul bruised by vitriol and mind blackened by bromides._

  
“Why don't...” Barnum ventures, “why don't we get you to bed, Phillip?” _At least you're already dressed for it, but when did that happen? Did those quacks and charlatans make you change into house clothes when you were sullen and somnolent, thinking you would never leave that room until they permitted it?_

  
Phillip says nothing but Charity mutters her agreement. Barnum hauls Phillip to his feet and has just gotten him back through the foyer on the way to the guest bedroom when a soft voice calls down from the upstairs balustrade.

  
“Daddy? Phillip?” Barnum looks up, barely makes out the shapes of Helen and Caroline, clutching the railing and peering down at them.

  
 


	7. Chapter 7

Barnum can only stare up at his daughters for a moment, dumbfounded. He has no idea what to tell them; let them believe Phillip too impaired to move on his own and think less of him for it, or expose the whole tangled skein of this night and make them believe worse of so much more.

 

Before he can open his mouth, though, Charity, _clever, marvelous, wonderful Charity_ , has stepped around him to climb the stairs. “Darlings, what are you doing up?” She calls out softly, not an ounce of tonight's troubles weighing down her voice.

 

“We heard you talking...is everyone alright?” Caroline, trying to speak for the both of them, almost drowns out Helen's hesitant, “Phillip?”

 

Charity turns to regard the pair of them: Barnum still struck silent, Phillip kept upright only by the older man's arms around him. “Everyone is fine, Caroline,” and there's that approach set. “Phillip is just feeling a bit unwell,” she adds as she reaches the upper level.

 

“Phillip's sick?” Helen asks worriedly, hands twisting around the railing.

 

“Yes, but he's going to be fine. Your father is taking care of him. Now, back to bed with you two,” Charity replies, and when the girls make to protest, adds, “You need your sleep so you can be ready to help if we need you tomorrow.” She spares her husband a last glance before hustling the girls down the hall.

 

Barnum huffs out a breath as he watches them leave, then looks over at Phillip, who is blinking at the just-vacated spot atop the stairs.

 

Phillip shifts his gaze to meet Barnum's own for a moment. “I don't...they...I don't want...” he trails off. “They shouldn't...” He says, falls short.

 

“Charity is taking care of it. We'll worry about the rest tomorrow.” Barnum replies softly. Then, in a louder voice, “And perhaps we'd best follow their example. Off to bed with you too, Phillip.”

 

He gets Phillip to the bedroom easily enough, pulls back the linens and eases the younger man down. Phillip sinks into the mattress with a low groan, and Barnum winces sympathetically. “Did you get a bit banged up in the fall, Phillip?” He asks, thought just occurring to him. _Could I have missed that, with everything else to worry about tonight?_

 

“Just...my hands.” Phillip admits, and Barnum lights a lamp to get a better look. He picks up his partner's hands carefully, notes the dirt and cuts, the scrapes along his palms and fingers but nothing that looks too dangerous. He supposes Phillip will not be hanging from the bars in the ring for a while, and is fairly certain Anne or WD would clock him if he even let the other man try.

 

“Did you hit your head at all?” _Would that be better or worse, if your muddled mind is down to an injury, or if those vile medicine men are completely to blame?_

 

“No,” Phillip says, but there is enough uncertainty in that response that Barnum sits on the bed next to him and runs his long fingers through the other man's tousled hair, relieved to find not so much as a bump. He does his best to gently smooth down Phillip's hair after, brushing dirt out of the soft strands, pushing wayward bangs back from the younger man's forehead.

 

Inspection complete, Barnum drops his hands into his lap, just regards Phillip for a minute. “Rough day for you, eh, Phillip?” He asks, voice as soft and low as he can make it. “Tomorrow will be better.” Phillip blinks languidly at him in response. _It has to be better. I will not let it be anything else._ “Get some rest.”

 

He watches the younger man close his eyes, hears his breathing even out, then decides to check on Charity and the girls. He shuts the door to the guestroom softly behind him before padding out to the foyer and up the stairs.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Barnum edges to the partially open door to the girls' room, sees Charity just getting up from Helen's bed, and waits for her in the hall.

 

“How are they?” He asks, gently taking his wife's hand.

 

“They're fine. I told Helen she could prepare some of her famous soup surprise if Phillip is still not feeling well tomorrow.”

 

Barnum winces. “I believe I found a branch from the azalea bush in my bowl last time she made that.” Charity just raises an eyebrow. “Well, I suppose it's the thought that counts.” Charity nods at that, yawning widely. “You should go back to bed, darling,” he tells her.

 

“How is Phillip?” She asks instead.

 

“Sleeping, now.” Barnum sighs, takes Charity's other hand. “This whole situation...tonight...I don't know...” he trails off, doesn't realize his hands are shaking until Charity starts squeezing them. “How can his parents...”

 

“They are intolerant people, Phin. Appearance is everything to them. And what Phillip's done...ignoring what his station requires of him...maybe they do really believe it's because of some illness, and they're doing what's necessary. For them, for their image...maybe even for Phillip.”

 

Barnum scoffs forcefully. “That's absurd,” he snarls, but falls silent at Charity's look. “Did...” he starts, horrified, “did _your_ parents ever do a thing like this?”

 

Mercifully, Charity shakes her head. “No. But our society find so many ways to punish people who defy its demands.” _Disapproving glares, harsh headmistresses, the cruel gossip of other girls when they find a secret stash of treasured letters_ , she doesn't say, but Barnum hears it all the same.

 

_Scowling shopkeepers, condemning critiques, spiteful men with the fire of hatred in their hearts and burning lanterns in their hands_ , he could respond, but he knows he doesn't need to.

 

“He will never see them again,” Barnum declares, wills it to be true. _But I hope I do. In a dark alley, somewhere._

 

“His decision, not yours,” Charity warns. “Though if they were here now...” Her turn to clutch at his hands, hard.

 

He smiles back at her sadly. “You really should go back to bed. I'll just...” he tilts his head to the staircase behind him.

 

“Go check on Phillip?” She returns his smile softly, slowly.

 

“Right,” he sighs back. Before he can leave she frees one of her hands, brings it to the side of his face. She studies him for a moment, thumb tracing his cheekbone, before she pulls him down for a quick kiss.

 

“He's going to be alright, Phin,” she says. “And so are you.”

 

She drops her hand and turns to go to their bedroom, and he descends the stairs slowly, gripping the banister tightly. He comes to the ajar door of the guest bedroom _didn't he close that when he left,_ pushes it all the way open, takes in the flickering lamp light and unmade bed _and_ _where the hell is Phillip?_

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Barnum charges fully into the room, checks every corner, the arm chair, _he certainly wouldn't be under the bed_ but he looks there too. Just dust. He stalks down the hallway _empty,_ scans the foyer _not here,_ shoves open the door to the kitchen _good God how did I lose him how much trouble could he be in,_ returns to the foyer with dread churning his stomach. _Would have seen him if he went up the stairs, did he fall through the floor_ before his eyes alight on the front door.

  


_Did you run? Why would you run from here, where I can keep an eye on you?_

  


And when he pulls open the door and sees Phillip, arms wrapped around himself, sitting on the top stair of the stoop his first impulse is to grab the younger man's shoulders and _shake._ But Barnum can, in fact, be a patient man when need be, so he settles instead for stepping out into the cool, early morning air next to Phillip.

  


Phillip speaks before Barnum can find his voice. “I woke up, and I wasn't...I didn't...I don't think I'm...thinking quite right, now.”

  


“I thought you had...” Barnum tables that fear, no use for it now. “You should...” that's not what he wants to say, either. “Would you like to come back inside now, Phillip?”

  


He's not sure Phillip hears him, not sure Phillip's _here_ at the moment. “They said...did you know, PT, sometimes they drill into people's skulls?” And then, in a still, small voice, “I didn't want them to do that to me.”

  


Barnum's eyes fly to Phillip's temples. _Too dark out here to tell_ , he panics for a moment, before he remembers he’d found nary a scratch on Phillip’s head earlier. Relief floods him, makes his legs weak until he sits down hard on the step next to Phillip.

  


“PT...” Phillip stutters, stops.

  


Barnum gingerly places an arm around Phillip's shoulders, isn't surprised to feel the younger man shivering.

  


“Why...why were you really at your parents' home today, Phillip?”

  


“I asked to meet them. I wanted...I thought...I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I could convince them that...that what I'm doing now, at the circus, is good. That it's fine for me to be...me, finally,” Phillip mumbles.

  


Barnum blinks back the moisture from his eyes. “It _is_ fine for you to be you. More than fine. But...if they can't see that, it's not your responsibility to make them.” He tips his head to catch Phillip's gaze, barely illuminated by the flickering street lights.

  


“But,” Phillip sniffs, “I had to try.”

  


“I know.” Barnum sighs and pulls Phillip's head down to his shoulder. “I know.”

  


“They...they told me so many things, PT,” Phillip says.

  


“Don't believe a word of what they said to you, Phillip,” he replies, voice soft but nothing less than certain.

  


“Yeah...but...I...it felt like I was there forever.” _It can't have been that long. I saw you just a few days ago..._

  


_Wait._

  


“Phillip, do you know what day it is?”

  


“Uh...Monday?” Phillip asks.

  


Barnum struggles to keep his voice even. “No, Phillip. It's Tuesday. Probably Wednesday at this point, but just barely. I think...I think you were there for longer than you realize.” _A day, more than that, when they had their hands on you. How could I have not known?_

  


“Oh,” Phillip whispers, and Barnum has to swallow back the lump forming in his throat. “What...what am I going to do?” Phillip asks in a daze, and Barnum feels his partner’s breath shudder through him.

  


_I don't know,_ Barnum thinks, but he will absolutely not tell Phillip that right now. _How far will they go, to mold you into something they find acceptable? They've already crossed a line I could have never imagined. But this will never happen again. Whatever it takes._

  


“ _We_ will figure something out, Phillip.” Phillip just hums in response. Barnum again considers the merits of burning the Carlyle estate to its foundations, decides it's probably more trouble than it's worth. But, oh, to see that place, emblematic of a society that refuses to accept the aberrant, suffer from the same scourge that nearly took so much from him.

  


He gives Phillip a few minutes to breathe _,_ himself a few minutes to listen, to feel Phillip, bruised but intact, against his side.

  


“Though...I think we could all use a little sleep first.” _You most of all, but me as well, before I do something you'll wish I hadn't, again._

  


“I just...” Phillip starts, sighs. “I'm tired, PT.” _How could you not be, and heartbroken besides?_

  


Barnum ruffles Phillip's hair, then gets to his feet and pulls the younger man upright after. He guides him to the guest room, the bed, again. Phillip sinks into the sheets, closes his eyes. He doesn't move when Barnum drags a chair right next to the bed, sits back, and props his feet up on the coverlet next to Phillip's.

  


Barnum watches him for a long time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Phillip jerks awake suddenly, chest heaving. _Where..._ He swears he can _feel_ his addled mind start up, churn violently through the events of the previous days, _bewildering_ _words and clinical stares, a bruising grip and a sharp needle, over and over, then a window and the cool air of freedom, a long climb down brought to a sudden stop by the hard ground, then walking, walking, stumbling, through the gloom and the cold._

  


_And then, his goal, low tones and worried looks, warm hands on him, so much gentler than those from earlier, something solid at his side, then soft sheets and sinking down down down._

  


He gazes up tiredly at the ceiling, lit by pale sunlight, takes a shuddering breath. _Get up, get out, get away_ a distant part of his brain screams at him, but his limbs are leaden and his head is heavy. He twitches his fingers, feels something around his wrist _strong hands, too many, holding him down 'til that prick prick at his skin and everything going gray grayer around the edges,_ sucks in another harsh breath and looks down.

  


Not those hard, cold hands here, but long, strong fingers, a delicate grip. He follows the arm to an elbow on the coverlet, up to a dressing gown-clad shoulder, past the curve of a long neck to a sleeping face, light stubble and wavy dark hair and brows softened by slumber.

  


_PT,_ his weary mind supplies as his racing heartbeat slows. _PT. Thank God._

  


He looks back to the fingers loosely encircling his wrist, wriggles his hand and turns his own fingers until they are entwined with Barnum's. He squeezes, feels them solid and warm, dimly recalls those strong fingers steadying his weary body and pulling him upwards, again and again. He wants to stay awake, wants to believe he's _here_ , wants to stay away from whatever demons are lurking in his sleeping mind but he just manages to tap a thumb lightly on the hand against his, think of bright eyes and a brighter laugh, a shoulder beside his, _always_ , and then he slides back into darkness.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story was sitting and gathering dust for a while because I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about it, and I was certain it didn't really tell the story I wanted to tell, which is what the longer-term effects of an event like this would be. But since I started posting, I've finished a first draft of the sequel, which is already way longer and WAY darker than this. I guess I'm getting to the story I want, one way or another. 
> 
> At any rate, I do hope you enjoyed this story (and please let me know if you did), and I hope to see you all soon for part two!


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